You seek a mobile home in him, yet space rises before you; you linger in the rift.
A patriarch pulls down the truck bed.
A house with rock wall beside the lake distracts the beads.
You look through glass and see nothing shorter.
Boundaries contrast what in the ru(i)n, thin delicate lines, narrow enough to act as string?
House the song, dissonance mitigated, certain things kept away.
You don’t have to bridge the distance. What falls from the hands.
Chord and boundary might be said to complement one another.
Then they’re Alaska.
The girl, regressed, stands on bow, silences the glacier.
Hurricane remainders blow down makeshift beds.
Cats manifest a disheveled electric.
Tarps, plastic bags, branches—separated but free.
You understand the contradiction by watching wind whip across the land, then turn your back to the window.
Our Parenthetical Ontology (CustomWords 2008), Elements (Stockport Flats 2010), Hélène (Furniture Press 2012), and the last will be stone, too (Stockport Flats Press 2013). She has several published chapbooks, most recently Keep (above/ground press 2012). Deborah co-edited Between Worlds: An Anthology of Contemporary Fiction and Criticism (Peter Lang 2012). Her writing has recently appeared in Handsome, Coconut, Shampoo, and Denver Quarterly. For more, please visit www.deborahpoe.com.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan